Chapter I: Got Two Vields (4)

J. Your dree-lagg'd stool woone night did bear
Up you a milkèn wi' a peäir;
An' there a zix-lagg'd stout did prick
Your vow'r-lagg'd cow, an meäke her kick,
A-hettèn, wi' a pretty pat,
Your stool an' you so flat's a mat.
You scrambled up a little dirty,
But I do hope it didden hurt ye.

A. You hope, indeed! a likely ceäse,
Wi' thik broad grin athirt your feäce
You saucy good-vor-nothèn chap,
I'll gi'e your grinnèn feäce a slap,
Your drawlèn tongue can only run
To turn a body into fun.

J. Oh! I woont do 't ageän. Oh dear!
Till next time, Anny. Oh my ear!
Oh! Anne, why you've a-het my hat
'Ithin the milk, now look at that.

A. Do sar ye right, then, I don't ceäre.
I'll thump your noddle,--there--there--there.

DAY'S WORK A-DONE.

And oh! the jaÿ our rest did yield,
At evenèn by the mossy wall,
When we'd a-work'd all day a-vield,
While zummer zuns did rise an' vall;
As there a-lettèn
Goo all frettèn,
An' vorgettèn all our tweils,
We zot among our childern's smiles.

An' under skies that glitter'd white,
The while our smoke, arisèn blue,
Did melt in aiër, out o' zight,
Above the trees that kept us lew;
Wer birds a-zingèn,
Tongues a-ringèn,
Childern springèn, vull o' jaÿ,
A-finishèn the day in plaÿ.

An' back behind, a-stannèn tall,
The cliff did sheen to western light;
An' while avore the water-vall,
A-rottlèn loud, an' foamèn white.
The leaves did quiver,
Gnots did whiver,
By the river, where the pool,
In evenèn aïr did glissen cool.

An' childern there, a-runnèn wide,
Did plaÿ their geämes along the grove,
Vor though to us 'twer jaÿ to bide
At rest, to them 'twer jaÿ to move.
The while my smilèn
Jeäne, beguilèn,
All my tweilèn, wi' her ceäre,
Did call me to my evenèn feäre.

LIGHT OR SHEÄDE.

A Maÿtide's evenèn wer a-dyèn,
Under moonsheen, into night,
Wi' a streamèn wind a-sighèn
By the thorns a-bloomèn white.
Where in sheäde, a-zinkèn deeply,
Wer a nook, all dark but lew,
By a bank, arisèn steeply,
Not to let the win' come drough.

Should my love goo out, a-showèn
All her smiles, in open light;
Or, in lewth, wi' wind a-blowèn,
Staÿ in darkness, dim to zight?
Staÿ in sheäde o' bank or wallèn,
In the warmth, if not in light;
Words alwone vrom her a-vallèn,
Would be jaÿ vor all the night.

THE WAGGON A-STOODED.

_Dree o'm a-ta'kèn o't._

(1) Well, here we be, then, wi' the vu'st poor lwoad
O' vuzz we brought, a-stoodèd in the road.

(2) The road, George, no. There's na'r a road. That's wrong.
If we'd a road, we mid ha' got along.

(1) Noo road! Ees 'tis, the road that we do goo.

(2) Do goo, George, no. The pleäce we can't get drough.

(1) Well, there, the vu'st lwoad we've a-haul'd to day
Is here a-stoodèd in theäse bed o' clay.
Here's rotten groun'! an' how the wheels do cut!
The little woone's a-zunk up to the nut.

(3) An' yeet this rotten groun' don't reach a lug.

(1) Well, come, then, gi'e the plow another tug.

(2) They meäres wull never pull the waggon out,
A-lwoaded, an' a-stoodèd in thik rout.

(3) We'll try. Come, _Smiler_, come! C'up, _Whitevoot_, gee!

(2) White-voot wi' lags all over mud! Hee! Hee!

(3) 'Twoon't wag. We shall but snap our gear,
An' overstraïn the meäres. 'Twoon't wag, 'tis clear.

(1) That's your work, William. No, in coo'se, 'twoon't wag.
Why did ye dr[=e]ve en into theäse here quag?
The vore-wheels be a-zunk above the nuts.

(3) What then? I coulden leäve the beäten track,
To turn the waggon over on the back
Ov woone o' theäsem wheel-high emmet-butts.
If you be sich a dr[=e]ver, an' do know't,
You dr[=e]ve the plow, then; but you'll overdrow 't.

(1) I dr[=e]ve the plow, indeed! Oh! ees, what, now
The wheels woont wag, then, _I_ mid dr[=e]ve the plow!
We'd better dig away the groun' below
The wheels. (2) There's na'r a speäde to dig wi'.

(1) An' teäke an' cut a lock o' frith, an' drow
Upon the clay. (2) Nor hook to cut a twig wi'.

(1) Oh! here's a bwoy a-comèn. Here, my lad,
Dost know vor a'r a speäde, that can be had?

(B) At father's. (1) Well, where's that? (Bwoy) At Sam'el Riddick's.

(1) Well run, an' ax vor woone. Fling up your heels,
An' mind: a speäde to dig out theäsem wheels,
An' hook to cut a little lock o' widdicks.

(3) Why, we shall want zix ho'ses, or a dozen,
To pull the waggon out, wi' all theäse vuzzen.

(1) Well, we mus' lighten en; come, Jeämes, then, hop
Upon the lwoad, an' jus' fling off the top.

(2) If I can clim' en; but 'tis my consaït,
That I shall overzet en wi' my waïght.

(1) You overzet en! No, Jeämes, he won't vall,
The lwoad's a-built so firm as any wall.

(2) Here! lend a hand or shoulder vor my knee
Or voot. I'll scramble to the top an' zee
What I can do. Well, here I be, among
The fakkets, vor a bit, but not vor long.
Heigh, George! Ha! ha! Why this wull never stand.
Your firm 's a wall, is all so loose as zand;
'Tis all a-come to pieces. Oh! Teäke ceäre!
Ho! I'm a-vallèn, vuzz an' all! Haë! There!

(1) Lo'k there, thik fellor is a-vell lik' lead,
An' half the fuzzen wi 'n, heels over head!
There's all the vuzz a-lyèn lik' a staddle,
An' he a-deäb'd wi' mud. Oh! Here's a caddle!

(3) An' zoo you soon got down zome vuzzen, Jimmy.

(2) Ees, I do know 'tis down. I brought it wi' me.

(3) Your lwoad, George, wer a rather slick-built thing,
But there, 'twer prickly vor the hands! Did sting?

(1) Oh! ees, d'ye teäke me vor a nincompoop,
No, no. The lwoad wer up so firm's a rock,
But two o' theäsem emmet-butts would knock
The tightest barrel nearly out o' hoop.

(3) Oh! now then, here 's the bwoy a-bringèn back
The speäde. Well done, my man. That idder slack.

(2) Well done, my lad, sha't have a ho'se to ride
When thou'st a meäre. (Bwoy) Next never's-tide.

(3) Now let's dig out a spit or two
O' clay, a-vore the little wheels;
Oh! so's, I can't pull up my heels,
I be a-stogg'd up over shoe.

(1) Come, William, dig away! Why you do spuddle
A'most so weak's a child. How you do muddle!
Gi'e me the speäde a-bit. A pig would rout
It out a'most so nimbly wi' his snout.

(3) Oh! so's, d'ye hear it, then. How we can thunder!
How big we be, then George! what next I wonder?

(1) Now, William, gi'e the waggon woone mwore twitch,
The wheels be free, an' 'tis a lighter nitch.

(3) Come, _Smiler_, gee! C'up, _White-voot_. (1) That wull do.

(2) Do wag. (1) Do goo at last. (3) Well done. 'Tis drough.

(1) Now, William, till you have mwore ho'ses' lags,
Don't dr[=e]ve the waggon into theäsem quags.

(3) You build your lwoads up tight enough to ride.

(1) I can't do less, d'ye know, wi' you vor guide.

GWAÏN DOWN THE STEPS VOR WATER.

While zuns do roll vrom east to west
To bring us work, or leäve us rest,
There down below the steep hill-zide,
Drough time an' tide, the spring do flow;
An' mothers there, vor years a-gone,
Lik' daughters now a-comèn on,
To bloom when they be weak an' wan,
Went down the steps vor water.

An' what do yonder ringers tell
A-ringèn changes, bell by bell;
Or what's a-show'd by yonder zight
O' vo'k in white, upon the road,
But that by John o' Woodleys zide,
There's now a-blushèn vor his bride,
A pretty maïd that vu'st he spied,
Gwaïn down the steps vor water.

Though she, 'tis true, is feäir an' kind,
There still be mwore a-left behind;
So cleän 's the light the zun do gi'e,
So sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright;
An' if I've luck, I woont be slow
To teäke off woone that I do know,
A-trippèn gaïly to an' fro,
Upon the steps vor water.

Her father idden poor--but vew
In parish be so well to do;
Vor his own cows do swing their taïls
Behind his païls, below his boughs:
An' then ageän to win my love,
Why, she's as hwomely as a dove,
An' don't hold up herzelf above
Gwaïn down the steps vor water.

Gwaïn down the steps vor water! No!
How handsome it do meäke her grow.
If she'd be straïght, or walk abrode,
To tread her road wi' comely gaït,
She coulden do a better thing
To zet herzelf upright, than bring
Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring
Upon the steps, wi' water.

No! don't ye neäme in woone seäme breath
Wi' bachelors, the husband's he'th;
The happy pleäce, where vingers thin
Do pull woone's chin, or pat woone's feäce.
But still the bleäme is their's, to slight
Their happiness, wi' such a zight
O' maïdens, mornèn, noon, an' night,
A-gwaïn down steps vor water.

ELLEN BRINE OV ALLENBURN.

Noo soul did hear her lips complaïn,
An' she's a-gone vrom all her païn,
An' others' loss to her is gaïn
For she do live in heaven's love;
Vull many a longsome day an' week
She bore her aïlèn, still, an' meek;
A-workèn while her strangth held on,
An' guidèn housework, when 'twer gone.
Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,
Oh! there be souls to murn.

The last time I'd a-cast my zight
Upon her feäce, a-feäded white,
Wer in a zummer's mornèn light
In hall avore the smwold'rèn vier,
The while the childern beät the vloor,
In plaÿ, wi' tiny shoes they wore,
An' call'd their mother's eyes to view
The feät's their little limbs could do.
Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,
They childern now mus' murn.

Then woone, a-stoppèn vrom his reäce,
Went up, an' on her knee did pleäce
His hand, a-lookèn in her feäce,
An' wi' a smilèn mouth so small,
He zaid, "You promised us to goo
To Shroton feäir, an' teäke us two!"
She heärd it wi' her two white ears,
An' in her eyes there sprung two tears,
Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn
Did veel that they mus' murn.

September come, wi' Shroton feäir,
But Ellen Brine wer never there!
A heavy heart wer on the meäre
Their father rod his hwomeward road.
'Tis true he brought zome feärèns back,
Vor them two childern all in black;
But they had now, wi' plaÿthings new,
Noo mother vor to shew em to,
Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn
Would never mwore return.

THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.

The zun'd a-zet back tother night,
But in the zettèn pleäce
The clouds, a-redden'd by his light,
Still glow'd avore my feäce.
An' I've a-lost my Meäry's smile,
I thought; but still I have her chile,
Zoo like her, that my eyes can treäce
The mother's in her daughter's feäce.
O little feäce so near to me,
An' like thy mother's gone; why need I zay
Sweet night cloud, wi' the glow o' my lost day,
Thy looks be always dear to me.
The zun'd a-zet another night;
But, by the moon on high,
He still did zend us back his light
Below a cwolder sky.
My Meäry's in a better land
I thought, but still her chile's at hand,
An' in her chile she'll zend me on
Her love, though she herzelf's a-gone.
O little chile so near to me,
An' like thy mother gone; why need I zay,
Sweet moon, the messenger vrom my lost day,
Thy looks be always dear to me.

THE LEÄDY'S TOWER.

An' then we went along the gleädes
O' zunny turf, in quiv'rèn sheädes,
A-windèn off, vrom hand to hand,
Along a path o' yollow zand,
An' clomb a stickle slope, an' vound
An open patch o' lofty ground,
Up where a steätely tow'r did spring,
So high as highest larks do zing.

"Oh! Meäster Collins," then I zaid,
A-lookèn up wi' back-flung head;
Vor who but he, so mild o' feäce,
Should teäke me there to zee the pleäce.
"What is it then theäse tower do meän,
A-built so feäir, an' kept so cleän?"
"Ah! me," he zaid, wi' thoughtvul feäce,
"'Twer grief that zet theäse tower in pleäce.
The squier's e'thly life's a-blest
Wi' gifts that mwost do teäke vor best;
The lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise
To screen his head vrom stormy skies;
His land's a-spreadèn roun' his hall,
An' hands do leäbor at his call;
The while the ho'se do fling, wi' pride,
His lofty head where he do guide;
But still his e'thly jaÿ's a-vled,
His woone true friend, his wife, is dead.
Zoo now her happy soul's a-gone,
An' he in grief's a-ling'rèn on,
Do do his heart zome good to show
His love to flesh an' blood below.
An' zoo he rear'd, wi' smitten soul,
Theäse Leädy's Tower upon the knowl.
An' there you'll zee the tow'r do spring
Twice ten veet up, as roun's a ring,
Wi' pillars under mwolded eäves,
Above their heads a-carv'd wi' leaves;
An' have to peäce, a-walkèn round
His voot, a hunderd veet o' ground.
An' there, above his upper wall,
A roundèd tow'r do spring so tall
'S a springèn arrow shot upright,
A hunderd giddy veet in height.
An' if you'd like to straïn your knees
A-climèn up above the trees,
To zee, wi' slowly wheelèn feäce,
The vur-sky'd land about the pleäce,
You'll have a flight o' steps to wear
Vor forty veet, up steäir by steäir,
That roun' the risèn tow'r do wind,
Like withwind roun' the saplèn's rind,
An' reach a landèn, wi' a seat,
To rest at last your weary veet,
'Ithin a breast be-screenèn wall,
To keep ye vrom a longsome vall.
An' roun' the windèn steäirs do spring
Aïght stwonèn pillars in a ring,
A-reachèn up their heavy strangth
Drough forty veet o' slender langth,
To end wi' carvèd heads below
The broad-vloor'd landèn's aïry bow.
Aïght zides, as you do zee, do bound
The lower buildèn on the ground,
An' there in woone, a two-leav'd door
Do zwing above the marble vloor:
An' aÿe, as luck do zoo betide
Our comèn, wi' can goo inside.
The door is oben now. An' zoo
The keeper kindly let us drough.
There as we softly trod the vloor
O' marble stwone, 'ithin the door,
The echoes ov our vootsteps vled
Out roun' the wall, and over head;
An' there a-païnted, zide by zide,
In memory o' the squier's bride,
In zeven païntèns, true to life,
Wer zeven zights o' wedded life."

Then Meäster Collins twold me all
The teäles a-païntèd roun' the wall;
An' vu'st the bride did stan' to plight
Her weddèn vow, below the light
A-shootèn down, so bright's a fleäme,
In drough a churches window freäme.
An' near the bride, on either hand,
You'd zee her comely bridemaïds stand,
Wi' eyelashes a-bent in streäks
O' brown above their bloomèn cheäks:
An' sheenèn feäir, in mellow light,
Wi' flowèn heäir, an' frocks o' white.

"An' here," good Meäster Collins cried,
"You'll zee a creädle at her zide,
An' there's her child, a-lyèn deep
'Ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep,
Wi' little eyelashes a-met
In fellow streäks, as black as jet;
The while her needle, over head,
Do nimbly leäd the snow-white thread,
To zew a robe her love do meäke
Wi' happy leäbor vor his seäke.

"An' here a-geän's another pleäce,
Where she do zit wi' smilèn feäce,
An' while her bwoy do leän, wi' pride,
Ageän her lap, below her zide,
Her vinger tip do leäd his look
To zome good words o' God's own book.

"An' next you'll zee her in her pleäce,
Avore her happy husband's feäce,
As he do zit, at evenèn-tide,
A-restèn by the vier-zide.
An' there the childern's heads do rise
Wi' laughèn lips, an' beamèn eyes,
Above the bwoard, where she do lay
Her sheenèn tacklèn, wi' the tea.

"An' here another zide do show
Her vinger in her scizzars' bow
Avore two daughters, that do stand,
Wi' leärnsome minds, to watch her hand
A-sheäpèn out, wi' skill an' ceäre,
A frock vor them to zew an' wear.

"Then next you'll zee her bend her head
Above her aïlèn husband's bed,
A-fannèn, wi' an inward praÿ'r,
His burnèn brow wi' beäten aïr;
The while the clock, by candle light,
Do show that 'tis the dead o' night.

"An' here ageän upon the wall,
Where we do zee her last ov all,
Her husband's head's a-hangèn low,
'Ithin his hands in deepest woe.
An' she, an angel ov his God,
Do cheer his soul below the rod,
A-liftèn up her han' to call
His eyes to writèn on the wall,
As white as is her spotless robe,
'Hast thou rememberèd my servant Job?'

"An' zoo the squier, in grief o' soul,
Built up the Tower upon the knowl."

FATHERHOOD.

Let en zit, wi' his dog an' his cat,
Wi' their noses a-turn'd to the vier,
An' have all that a man should desire;
But there idden much reädship in that.
Whether vo'k mid have childern or no,
Wou'dden meäke mighty odds in the maïn;
They do bring us mwore jaÿ wi' mwore ho,
An' wi' nwone we've less jaÿ wi' less païn
We be all lik' a zull's idle sheäre out,
An' shall rust out, unless we do wear out,
Lik' do-nothèn, rue-nothèn,
Dead alive dumps.

As vor me, why my life idden bound
To my own heart alwone, among men;
I do live in myzelf, an' ageän
In the lives o' my childern all round:
I do live wi' my bwoy in his plaÿ,
An' ageän wi' my maïd in her zongs;
An' my heart is a-stirr'd wi' their jaÿ,
An' would burn at the zight o' their wrongs.
I ha' nine lives, an' zoo if a half
O'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laugh
All so plaÿvully, jaÿvully,
Happy wi' hope.

Tother night I come hwome a long road,
When the weather did sting an' did vreeze;
An' the snow--vor the day had a-snow'd--
Wer avroze on the boughs o' the trees;
An' my tooes an' my vingers wer num',
An' my veet wer so lumpy as logs,
An' my ears wer so red's a cock's cwom';
An' my nose wer so cwold as a dog's;
But so soon's I got hwome I vorgot
Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot,
When wi' loud cries an' proud cries
They coll'd me so cwold.

Vor the vu'st that I happen'd to meet
Come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my eärm,
An' another did rub my feäce warm,
An' another hot-slipper'd my veet;
While their mother did cast on a stick,
Vor to keep the red vier alive;
An' they all come so busy an' thick
As the bees vlee-èn into their hive,
An' they meäde me so happy an' proud,
That my heart could ha' crow'd out a-loud;
They did tweil zoo, an' smile zoo,
An' coll me so cwold.

As I zot wi' my teacup, at rest,
There I pull'd out the taÿs I did bring;
Men a-kickèn, a-wagg'd wi' a string,
An' goggle-ey'd dolls to be drest;
An' oh! vrom the childern there sprung
Such a charm when they handled their taÿs,
That vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung
Their two hands at the zight o' their jaÿs;
As the bwoys' bigger vaïces vell in
Wi' the maïdens a-titterèn thin,
An' their dancèn an' prancèn,
An' little mouth's laughs.

Though 'tis hard stripes to breed em all up,
If I'm only a-blest vrom above,
They'll meäke me amends wi' their love,
Vor their pillow, their pleäte, an' their cup;
Though I shall be never a-spweil'd
Wi' the sarvice that money can buy;
Still the hands ov a wife an' a child
Be the blessèns ov low or ov high;
An' if there be mouths to be ved,
He that zent em can zend me their bread,
An' will smile on the chile
That's a-new on the knee.

THE MAID O' NEWTON.

In zummer, when the knaps wer bright
In cool-aïr'd evenèn's western light,
An' haÿ that had a-dried all day,
Did now lie grey, to dewy night;
I went, by happy chance, or doom,
Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb,
An' met a maïd in all her bloom:
The feaïrest maïd o' Newton.

She bore a basket that did ride
So light, she didden leän azide;
Her feäce wer oval, an' she smil'd
So sweet's a child, but walk'd wi' pride.
I spoke to her, but what I zaid
I didden know; wi' thoughts a-vled,
I spoke by heart, an' not by head,
Avore the maïd o' Newton.

I call'd her, oh! I don't know who,
'Twer by a neäme she never knew;
An' to the heel she stood upon,
She then brought on her hinder shoe,
An' stopp'd avore me, where we met,
An' wi' a smile woone can't vorget,
She zaid, wi' eyes a-zwimmèn wet,
"No, I be woone o' Newton."

Then on I rambled to the west,
Below the zunny hangèn's breast,
Where, down athirt the little stream,
The brudge's beam did lie at rest:
But all the birds, wi' lively glee,
Did chirp an' hop vrom tree to tree,
As if it wer vrom pride, to zee
Goo by the maïd o' Newton.

By fancy led, at evenèn's glow,
I woonce did goo, a-rovèn slow,
Down where the elèms, stem by stem,
Do stan' to hem the grove below;
But after that, my veet vorzook
The grove, to seek the little brook
At Coomb, where I mid zometimes look,
To meet the maïd o' Newton.

CHILDHOOD.

Aye, at that time our days wer but vew,
An' our lim's wer but small, an' a-growèn;
An' then the feäir worold wer new,
An' life wer all hopevul an' gaÿ;
An' the times o' the sproutèn o' leaves,
An' the cheäk-burnèn seasons o' mowèn,
An' bindèn o' red-headed sheaves,
Wer all welcome seasons o' jaÿ.

Then the housen seem'd high, that be low,
An' the brook did seem wide that is narrow,
An' time, that do vlee, did goo slow,
An' veelèns now feeble wer strong,
An' our worold did end wi' the neämes
Ov the Sha'sbury Hill or Bulbarrow;
An' life did seem only the geämes
That we plaÿ'd as the days rolled along.

Then the rivers, an' high-timber'd lands,
An' the zilvery hills, 'ithout buyèn,
Did seem to come into our hands
Vrom others that own'd em avore;
An' all zickness, an' sorrow, an' need,
Seem'd to die wi' the wold vo'k a-dyèn,
An' leäve us vor ever a-freed
Vrom evils our vorefathers bore.

But happy be childern the while
They have elders a-livèn to love em,
An' teäke all the wearisome tweil
That zome hands or others mus' do;
Like the low-headed shrubs that be warm,
In the lewth o' the trees up above em,
A-screen'd vrom the cwold blowèn storm
That the timber avore em must rue.

MEÄRY'S SMILE.

When mornèn winds, a-blowèn high,
Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky,
An' laurel-leaves do glitter bright,
The while the newly broken light
Do brighten up, avore our view,
The vields wi' green, an' hills wi' blue;
What then can highten to my eyes
The cheerful feäce ov e'th an' skies,
But Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

An' when, at last, the evenèn dews
Do now begin to wet our shoes;
An' night's a-ridèn to the west,
To stop our work, an' gi'e us rest,
Oh! let the candle's ruddy gleäre
But brighten up her sheenèn heäir;
Or else, as she do walk abroad,
Let moonlight show, upon the road,
My Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

An' O! mid never tears come on,
To wash her feäce's blushes wan,
Nor kill her smiles that now do plaÿ
Like sparklèn weäves in zunny Maÿ;
But mid she still, vor all she's gone
Vrom souls she now do smile upon,
Show others they can vind woone jaÿ
To turn the hardest work to plaÿ.
My Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

MEÄRY WEDDED.

The zun can zink, the stars mid rise,
An' woods be green to sheenèn skies;
The cock mid crow to mornèn light,
An' workvo'k zing to vallèn night;
The birds mid whissle on the spraÿ,
An' childern leäp in merry plaÿ,
But our's is now a lifeless pleäce,
Vor we've a-lost a smilèn feäce--
Young Meäry Meäd o' merry mood,
Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

The dog that woonce wer glad to bear
Her fondlèn vingers down his heäir,
Do leän his head ageän the vloor,
To watch, wi' heavy eyes, the door;
An' men she zent so happy hwome
O' Zadurdays, do seem to come
To door, wi' downcast hearts, to miss
Wi' smiles below the clematis,
Young Meäry Meäd o' merry mood,
Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

When they do draw the evenèn blind,
An' when the evenèn light's a-tin'd,
The cheerless vier do drow a gleäre
O' light ageän her empty chair;
An' wordless gaps do now meäke thin
Their talk where woonce her vaïce come in.
Zoo lwonesome is her empty pleäce,
An' blest the house that ha' the feäce
O' Meäry Meäd, o' merry mood,
Now she's a-woo'd and wedded.

The day she left her father's he'th,
Though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th,
An' dry-wheel'd waggons' empty beds
Wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds;
An' all the hosses, at their eäse,
Went snortèn up the flow'ry leäse,
But woone, the smartest for the roäd,
That pull'd away the dearest lwoad--
Young Meäry Meäd o' merry mood,
That wer a-woo'd an' wedded.

THE STWONEN BWOY UPON THE PILLAR.

Wi' smokeless tuns an' empty halls,
An' moss a-clingèn to the walls,
In ev'ry wind the lofty tow'rs
Do teäke the zun, an' bear the show'rs;
An' there, 'ithin a geät a-hung,
But vasten'd up, an' never swung,
Upon the pillar, all alwone,
Do stan' the little bwoy o' stwone;
'S a poppy bud mid linger on,
Vorseäken, when the wheat's a-gone.
An' there, then, wi' his bow let slack,
An' little quiver at his back,
Drough het an' wet, the little chile
Vrom day to day do stan' an' smile.
When vu'st the light, a-risèn weak,
At break o' day, do smite his cheäk,
Or while, at noon, the leafy bough
Do cast a sheäde a-thirt his brow,
Or when at night the warm-breath'd cows
Do sleep by moon-belighted boughs;
An' there the while the rooks do bring
Their scroff to build their nest in Spring,
Or zwallows in the zummer day
Do cling their little huts o' clay,
'Ithin the raïnless sheädes, below
The steadvast arches' mossy bow.
Or when, in Fall, the woak do shed
The leaves, a-wither'd, vrom his head,
An' western win's, a-blowèn cool,
Do dreve em out athirt the pool,
Or Winter's clouds do gather dark
An' wet, wi' raïn, the elem's bark,
You'll zee his pretty smile betwixt
His little sheäde-mark'd lips a-fix'd;
As there his little sheäpe do bide
Drough day an' night, an' time an' tide,
An' never change his size or dress,
Nor overgrow his prettiness.
But, oh! thik child, that we do vind
In childhood still, do call to mind
A little bwoy a-call'd by death,
Long years agoo, vrom our sad he'th;
An' I, in thought, can zee en dim
The seäme in feäce, the seäme in lim',
My heäir mid whiten as the snow,
My limbs grow weak, my step wear slow,
My droopèn head mid slowly vall
Above the han'-staff's glossy ball,
An' yeet, vor all a wid'nèn span
Ov years, mid change a livèn man,
My little child do still appear
To me wi' all his childhood's gear,
'Ithout a beard upon his chin,
'Ithout a wrinkle in his skin,
A-livèn on, a child the seäme
In look, an' sheäpe, an' size, an' neäme.

THE YOUNG THAT DIED IN BEAUTY.

If souls should only sheen so bright
In heaven as in e'thly light,
An' nothèn better wer the ceäse,
How comely still, in sheäpe an' feäce,
Would many reach thik happy pleäce,--
The hopeful souls that in their prime
Ha' seem'd a-took avore their time--
The young that died in beauty.

But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth
A-tweilèn drough a lifetime's langth,
An' over cheäks a-growèn wold
The slowly-weästen years ha' rolled,
The deep'nèn wrinkle's hollow vwold;
When life is ripe, then death do call
Vor less ov thought, than when do vall
On young vo'ks in their beauty.

But pinèn souls, wi' heads a-hung
In heavy sorrow vor the young,
The sister ov the brother dead,
The father wi' a child a-vled,
The husband when his bride ha' laid
Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,
Have all a-vound the time to murn
Vor youth that died in beauty.

An' yeet the church, where praÿer do rise
Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes.
An' village greens, a-beät half beäre
By dancers that do meet, an' weär
Such merry looks at feäst an' feäir,
Do gather under leàtest skies,
Their bloomèn cheäks an' sparklèn eyes,
Though young ha' died in beauty.

But still the dead shall mwore than keep
The beauty ov their eärly sleep;
Where comely looks shall never weär
Uncomely, under tweil an' ceäre.
The feäir at death be always feäir,
Still feäir to livers' thought an' love,
An' feäirer still to God above,
Than when they died in beauty.

FAIR EMILY OV YARROW MILL.

Dear Yarrowham, 'twer many miles
Vrom thy green meäds that, in my walk,
I met a maïd wi' winnèn smiles,
That talk'd as vo'k at hwome do talk;
An' who at last should she be vound,
Ov all the souls the sky do bound,
But woone that trod at vu'st thy groun'
Fair Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

But thy wold house an' elmy nook,
An' wall-screen'd geärden's mossy zides,
Thy grassy meäds an' zedgy brook,
An' high-bank'd leänes, wi' sheädy rides,
Wer all a-known to me by light
Ov eärly days, a-quench'd by night,
Avore they met the younger zight
Ov Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

An' now my heart do leäp to think
O' times that I've a-spent in plaÿ,
Bezide thy river's rushy brink,
Upon a deäizybed o' Maÿ;
I lov'd the friends thy land ha' bore,
An' I do love the paths they wore,
An' I do love thee all the mwore,
Vor Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

When bright above the e'th below
The moon do spread abroad his light,
An' aïr o' zummer nights do blow
Athirt the vields in plaÿsome flight,
'Tis then delightsome under all
The sheädes o' boughs by path or wall,
But mwostly thine when they do vall
On Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

THE SCUD.

Aye, aye, the leäne wi' flow'ry zides
A-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides,
Wi' beds o' graegles out in bloom,
Below the timber's windless gloon
An' geäte that I've a-swung,
An' rod as he's a-hung,
When I wer young, in Woakley Coomb.

'Twer there at feäst we all did pass
The evenèn on the leänezide grass,
Out where the geäte do let us drough,
Below the woak-trees in the lew,
In merry geämes an' fun
That meäde us skip an' run,
Wi' burnèn zun, an' sky o' blue.

But still there come a scud that drove
The titt'rèn maïdens vrom the grove;
An' there a-left wer flow'ry mound,
'Ithout a vaïce, 'ithout a sound,
Unless the aïr did blow,
Drough ruslèn leaves, an' drow,
The raïn drops low, upon the ground.

I linger'd there an' miss'd the naïse;
I linger'd there an' miss'd our jaÿs;
I miss'd woone soul beyond the rest;
The maïd that I do like the best.
Vor where her vaïce is gaÿ
An' where her smiles do plaÿ,
There's always jaÿ vor ev'ry breast.

Vor zome vo'k out abroad ha' me'th,
But nwone at hwome bezide the he'th;
An' zome ha' smiles vor strangers' view;
An' frowns vor kith an' kin to rue;
But her sweet vaïce do vall,
Wi' kindly words to all,
Both big an' small, the whole day drough.

An' when the evenèn sky wer peäle,
We heärd the warblèn nightèngeäle,
A-drawèn out his lwonesome zong,
In windèn music down the drong;
An' Jenny vrom her he'th,
Come out, though not in me'th,
But held her breath, to hear his zong.

Then, while the bird wi' oben bill
Did warble on, her vaïce wer still;
An' as she stood avore me, bound
In stillness to the flow'ry mound,
"The bird's a jaÿ to zome,"
I thought, "but when he's dum,
Her vaïce will come, wi' sweeter sound."

MINDEN HOUSE.

'Twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl
A vield o' haÿ a day in June,
An' when the zun begun to vall
Toward the west in afternoon,
Woone only wer a-left behind
To bide indoors, at hwome, an' mind
The house, an' answer vo'k avore
The geäte or door,--young Fanny Deäne.

The aïr 'ithin the geärden wall
Wer deadly still, unless the bee
Did hummy by, or in the hall
The clock did ring a-hettèn dree,
An' there, wi' busy hands, inside
The iron ceäsement, oben'd wide,
Did zit an' pull wi' nimble twitch
Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deäne.

As there she zot she heärd two blows
A-knock'd upon the rumblèn door,
An' laid azide her work, an' rose,
An' walk'd out feäir, athirt the vloor;
An' there, a-holdèn in his hand
His bridled meäre, a youth did stand,
An' mildly twold his neäme and pleäce
Avore the feäce o' Fanny Deäne.

He twold her that he had on hand
Zome business on his father's zide,
But what she didden understand;
An' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride
Out where her father mid be vound,
Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground;
An' there he went, but left his mind
Back there behind, wi' Fanny Deäne.

An' oh! his hwomeward road wer gaÿ
In aïr a-blowèn, whiff by whiff,
While sheenèn water-weäves did plaÿ
An' boughs did swaÿ above the cliff;
Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim
The jaÿ it had in store vor him;
An' when he went thik road ageän
His errand then wer Fanny Deäne.

How strangely things be brought about
By Providence, noo tongue can tell,
She minded house, when vo'k wer out,
An' zoo mus' bid the house farewell;
The bees mid hum, the clock mid call
The lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall,
But in behind the woaken door,
There's now noo mwore a Fanny Deäne.

THE LOVELY MAÏD OV ELWELL MEÄD.

A maïd wi' many gifts o' greäce,
A maïd wi' ever-smilèn feäce,
A child o' yours my chilhood's pleäce,
O leänèn lawns ov Allen;
'S a-walkèn where your stream do flow,
A-blushèn where your flowers do blow,
A-smilèn where your zun do glow,
O leänèn lawns ov Allen.
An' good, however good's a-waïgh'd,
'S the lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

An' oh! if I could teäme an' guide
The winds above the e'th, an' ride
As light as shootèn stars do glide,
O leänèn lawns ov Allen,
To you I'd teäke my daily flight,
Drough dark'nèn aïr in evenèn's light,
An' bid her every night "Good night,"
O leänèn lawns ov Allen.
Vor good, however good's a-waïgh'd,
'S the lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

An' when your hedges' slooes be blue,
By blackberries o' dark'nèn hue,
An' spiders' webs behung wi' dew,
O leänèn lawns ov Allen
Avore the winter aïr's a-chill'd,
Avore your winter brook's a-vill'd
Avore your zummer flow'rs be kill'd,
O leänèn lawns ov Allen;
I there would meet, in white arraÿ'd,
The lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

For when the zun, as birds do rise,
Do cast their sheädes vrom autum' skies,
A-sparklèn in her dewy eyes,
O leänèn lawns ov Allen
Then all your mossy paths below
The trees, wi' leaves a-vallèn slow,
Like zinkèn fleäkes o' yollow snow,
O leänèn lawns ov Allen.
Would be mwore teäkèn where they straÿ'd
The lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

OUR FATHERS' WORKS.

Ah! I do think, as I do tread
Theäse path, wi' elems overhead,
A-climèn slowly up vrom Bridge,
By easy steps, to Broadwoak Ridge,
That all theäse roads that we do bruise
Wi' hosses' shoes, or heavy lwoads;
An' hedges' bands, where trees in row
Do rise an' grow aroun' the lands,
Be works that we've a-vound a-wrought
By our vorefathers' ceäre an' thought.

They clear'd the groun' vor grass to teäke
The pleäce that bore the bremble breäke,
An' draïn'd the fen, where water spread,
A-lyèn dead, a beäne to men;
An' built the mill, where still the wheel
Do grind our meal, below the hill;
An' turn'd the bridge, wi' arch a-spread,
Below a road, vor us to tread.

They vound a pleäce, where we mid seek
The gifts o' greäce vrom week to week;
An' built wi' stwone, upon the hill,
A tow'r we still do call our own;
With bells to use, an' meäke rejaïce,
Wi' giant vaïce, at our good news:
An' lifted stwones an' beams to keep
The raïn an' cwold vrom us asleep.

Zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget
The pattern our vorefathers zet;
But each be fäin to underteäke
Some work to meäke vor others' gaïn,
That we mid leäve mwore good to sheäre,
Less ills to bear, less souls to grieve,
An' when our hands do vall to rest,
It mid be vrom a work a-blest.

THE WOLD VO'K DEAD.

My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone,
An' childern now a-comèn on,
Do bring me still my mother's smiles
In light that now do show my chile's;
An' I've a-sheär'd the wold vo'ks' me'th,
Avore the burnèn Chris'mas he'th,
At friendly bwoards, where feäce by feäce,
Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleäce,
An' leäve me here, behind, to tread
The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.

But wold things be a-lost vor new,
An' zome do come, while zome do goo:
As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling
Among the nesh young buds o' Spring;
An' frettèn worms ha' slowly wound,
Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound,
An' trees they planted little slips
Ha' stems that noo two eärms can clips;
An' grey an' yollow moss do spread
On buildèns new to wold vo'k dead.

The backs of all our zilv'ry hills,
The brook that still do dreve our mills,
The roads a-climèn up the brows
O' knaps, a-screen'd by meäple boughs,
Wer all a-mark'd in sheäde an' light
Avore our wolder fathers' zight,
In zunny days, a-gied their hands
For happy work, a-tillèn lands,
That now do yield their childern bread
Till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead.

But livèn vo'k, a-grievèn on,
Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone,
Do zee their goodness, but do vind
All else a-stealèn out o' mind;
As air do meäke the vurthest land
Look feäirer than the vield at hand,
An' zoo, as time do slowly pass,
So still's a sheäde upon the grass,
Its wid'nèn speäce do slowly shed
A glory roun' the wold vo'k dead.

An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath
Is zoo a-hallow'd after death,
That they mid only know above,
Their times o' faïth, an' jaÿ, an' love,
While all the evil time ha' brought
'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought;
As all the moon that idden bright,
'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight;
And all the godly life they led
Is glory to the wold vo'k dead.

If things be zoo, an' souls above
Can only mind our e'thly love,
Why then they'll veel our kindness drown
The thoughts ov all that meäde em frown.
An' jaÿ o' jaÿs will dry the tear
O' sadness that do trickle here,
An' nothèn mwore o' life than love,
An' peace, will then be know'd above.
Do good, vor that, when life's a-vled,
Is still a pleasure to the dead.

CULVER DELL AND THE SQUIRE.

There's noo pleäce I do like so well,
As Elem Knap in Culver Dell,
Where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds,
Did rise avore the western clouds;
An' stan' ageän, wi' veathery tops,
A-swayèn up in North-Hill Copse.
An' on the east the mornèn broke
Above a dewy grove o' woak:
An' noontide shed its burnèn light
On ashes on the southern height;
An' I could vind zome teäles to tell,
O' former days in Culver Dell.

An' all the vo'k did love so well
The good wold squire o' Culver Dell,
That used to ramble drough the sheädes
O' timber, or the burnèn gleädes,
An' come at evenèn up the leäze
Wi' red-eär'd dogs bezide his knees.
An' hold his gun, a-hangèn drough
His eärmpit, out above his tooe.
Wi' kindly words upon his tongue,
Vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young,
Vor he did know the poor so well
'S the richest vo'k in Culver Dell.

An' while the woäk, wi' spreadèn head,
Did sheäde the foxes' verny bed;
An' runnèn heäres, in zunny gleädes,
Did beät the grasses' quiv'rèn' bleädes;
An' speckled pa'tridges took flight
In stubble vields a-feädèn white;
Or he could zee the pheasant strut
In sheädy woods, wi' païnted cwoat;
Or long-tongued dogs did love to run
Among the leaves, bezide his gun;
We didden want vor call to dwell
At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.

But now I hope his kindly feäce
Is gone to vind a better pleäce;
But still, wi' vo'k a-left behind
He'll always be a-kept in mind,
Vor all his springy-vooted hounds
Ha' done o' trottèn round his grounds,
An' we have all a-left the spot,
To teäke, a-scatter'd, each his lot;
An' even Father, lik' the rest,
Ha' left our long vorseäken nest;
An' we should vind it sad to dwell,
Ageän at hwome in Culver Dell.

The aïry mornèns still mid smite
Our windows wi' their rwosy light,
An' high-zunn'd noons mid dry the dew
On growèn groun' below our shoe;
The blushèn evenèn still mid dye,
Wi' viry red, the western sky;
The zunny spring-time's quicknèn power
Mid come to oben leaf an' flower;
An' days an' tides mid bring us on
Woone pleasure when another's gone.
But we must bid a long farewell
To days an' tides in Culver Dell.

OUR BE'THPLACE.

How dear's the door a latch do shut,
An' geärden that a hatch do shut,
Where vu'st our bloomèn cheäks ha' prest
The pillor ov our childhood's rest;
Or where, wi' little tooes, we wore
The paths our fathers trod avore;
Or clim'd the timber's bark aloft,
Below the zingèn lark aloft,
The while we heärd the echo sound
Drough all the ringèn valley round.

A lwonesome grove o' woak did rise,
To screen our house, where smoke did rise,
A-twistèn blue, while yeet the zun
Did langthen on our childhood's fun;
An' there, wi' all the sheäpes an' sounds
O' life, among the timber'd grounds,
The birds upon their boughs did zing,
An' milkmaïds by their cows did zing,
Wi' merry sounds, that softly died,
A-ringèn down the valley zide.

By river banks, wi' reeds a-bound,
An' sheenèn pools, wi' weeds a-bound,
The long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill
To snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill;
An' stridèn peewits heästen'd by,
O' tiptooe wi' their screamèn cry;
An' stalkèn cows a-lowèn loud,
An' struttèn cocks a-crowèn loud,
Did rouse the echoes up to mock
Their mingled sounds by hill an' rock.

The stars that clim'd our skies all dark,
Above our sleepèn eyes all dark,
An' zuns a-rollèn round to bring
The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring,
Ha' vled, wi' never-restèn flight,
Drough green-bough'd day, an' dark-tree'd night;
Till now our childhood's pleäces there,
Be gaÿ wi' other feäces there,
An' we ourselves do vollow on
Our own vorelivers dead an' gone.

THE WINDOW FREÄM'D WI' STWONE.

When Pentridge House wer still the nest
O' souls that now ha' better rest,
Avore the viër burnt to ground
His beams an' walls, that then wer sound,
'Ithin a naïl-bestudded door,
An' passage wi' a stwonèn vloor,
There spread the hall, where zun-light shone
In drough a window freäm'd wi' stwone.

A clavy-beam o' sheenèn woak
Did span the he'th wi' twistèn smoke,
Where fleämes did shoot in yollow streaks,
Above the brands, their flashèn peaks;
An' aunt did pull, as she did stand
O'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand,
A curtain feäded wi' the zun,
Avore the window freäm'd wi' stwone.

When Hwome-ground grass, below the moon,
Wer damp wi' evenèn dew in June,
An' aunt did call the maïdens in
Vrom walkèn, wi' their shoes too thin,
They zot to rest their litty veet
Upon the window's woaken seat,
An' chatted there, in light that shone
In drough the window freäm'd wi' stwone.

An' as the seasons, in a ring,
Roll'd slowly roun' vrom Spring to Spring,
An' brought em on zome holy-tide,
When they did cast their tools azide;
How glad it meäde em all to spy
In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh,
As they did know em all by neäme
Out drough the window's stwonèn freäme.

O evenèn zun, a-ridèn drough
The sky, vrom Sh'oton Hill o' blue,
To leäve the night a-broodèn dark
At Stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park;
Small jaÿ to me the vields do bring,
Vor all their zummer birds do zing,
Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleäme
In drough the window's stwonèn freäme.

THE WATER-SPRING IN THE LEANE.

Oh! aye! the spring 'ithin the leäne,
A-leäden down to Lyddan Brook;
An' still a-nesslèn in his nook,
As weeks do pass, an' moons do weäne.
Nwone the drier,
Nwone the higher,
Nwone the nigher to the door
Where we did live so long avore.

An' oh! what vo'k his mossy brim
Ha' gathered in the run o' time!
The wife a-blushèn in her prime;
The widow wi' her eyezight dim;
Maïdens dippèn,
Childern sippèn,
Water drippèn, at the cool
Dark wallèn ov the little pool.

Behind the spring do lie the lands
My father till'd, vrom Spring to Spring,
Awäitèn on vor time to bring
The crops to paÿ his weary hands.
Wheat a-growèn,
Beäns a-blowèn,
Grass vor mowèn, where the bridge
Do leäd to Ryall's on the ridge.

But who do know when liv'd an' died
The squier o' the mwoldrèn hall;
That lined en wi' a stwonèn wall,
An' steän'd so cleän his wat'ry zide?
We behind en,
Now can't vind en,
But do mind en, an' do thank
His meäker vor his little tank.

THE POPLARS.

If theäse day's work an' burnèn sky
'V'a-zent hwome you so tired as I,
Let's zit an' rest 'ithin the screen
O' my wold bow'r upon the green;
Where I do goo myself an' let
The evenèn aiër cool my het,
When dew do wet the grasses bleädes,
A-quiv'rèn in the dusky sheädes.

There yonder poplar trees do plaÿ
Soft music, as their heads do swaÿ,
While wind, a-rustlèn soft or loud,
Do stream ageän their lofty sh'oud;
An' seem to heal the ranklèn zore
My mind do meet wi' out o' door,
When I've a-bore, in downcast mood,
Zome evil where I look'd vor good.

O' they two poplars that do rise
So high avore our naïghbours' eyes,
A-zet by gramfer, hand by hand,
Wi' grammer, in their bit o' land;
The woone upon the western zide
Wer his, an' woone wer grammer's pride,
An' since they died, we all do teäke
Mwore ceäre o'm vor the wold vo'k's seäke.

An' there, wi' stems a-growèn tall
Avore the houses mossy wall,
The while the moon ha' slowly past
The leafy window, they've a-cast
Their sheädes 'ithin the window peäne;
While childern have a-grown to men,
An' then ageän ha' left their beds,
To bear their childern's heavy heads.

THE LINDEN ON THE LAWN.

No! Jenny, there's noo pleäce to charm
My mind lik' yours at Woakland farm,
A-peärted vrom the busy town,
By longsome miles ov aïry down,
Where woonce the meshy wall did gird
Your flow'ry geärden, an' the bird
Did zing in zummer wind that stirr'd
The spreädèn linden on the lawn.

An' now ov all the trees wi' sheädes
A-wheelèn round in Blackmwore gleädes,
There's noo tall poplar by the brook,
Nor elem that do rock the rook,
Nor ash upon the shelvèn ledge,
Nor low-bough'd woak bezide the hedge,
Nor withy up above the zedge,
So dear's thik linden on the lawn.

Vor there, o' zummer nights, below
The wall, we zot when aïr did blow,
An' sheäke the dewy rwose a-tied
Up roun' the window's stwonèn zide.
An' while the carter rod' along
A-zingèn, down the dusky drong,
There you did zing a sweeter zong
Below the linden on the lawn.

An' while your warbled ditty wound
Drough plaÿsome flights o' mellow sound,
The nightèngeäle's sh'ill zong, that broke
The stillness ov the dewy woak,
Rung clear along the grove, an' smote
To sudden stillness ev'ry droat;
As we did zit, an' hear it float
Below the linden on the lawn.

Where dusky light did softly vall
'Ithin the stwonèn-window'd hall,
Avore your father's blinkèn eyes,
His evenèn whiff o' smoke did rise,
An' vrom the bedroom window's height
Your little John, a-cloth'd in white,
An' gwaïn to bed, did cry "good night"
Towards the linden on the lawn.

But now, as Dobbin, wi' a nod
Vor ev'ry heavy step he trod,
Did bring me on, to-night, avore
The geäbled house's pworchèd door,
Noo laughèn child a-cloth'd in white,
Look'd drough the stwonèn window's light,
An' noo vaïce zung, in dusky night,
Below the linden on the lawn.

An' zoo, if you should ever vind
My kindness seem to grow less kind,
An' if upon my clouded feäce
My smile should yield a frown its pleäce,
Then, Jenny, only laugh an' call
My mind 'ithin the geärden wall,
Where we did plaÿ at even-fall,
Below the linden on the lawn.

OUR ABODE IN ARBY WOOD.

Though ice do hang upon the willows
Out bezide the vrozen brook,
An' storms do roar above our pillows,
Drough the night, 'ithin our nook;
Our evenèn he'th's a-glowèn warm,
Drough wringèn vrost, an' roarèn storm,
Though winds mid meäke the wold beams sheäke,
In our abode in Arby Wood.

An' there, though we mid hear the timber
Creake avore the windy raïn;
An' climèn ivy quiver, limber,
Up ageän the window peäne;
Our merry vaïces then do sound,
In rollèn glee, or dree-vaïce round;
Though wind mid roar, 'ithout the door,
Ov our abode in Arby Wood.

SLOW TO COME, QUICK AGONE.

Ah! there's a house that I do know
Besouth o' yonder trees,
Where northern winds can hardly blow
But in a softest breeze.
An' there woonce sounded zongs an' teäles
Vrom vaïce o' maïd or youth,
An' sweeter than the nightèngeäle's
Above the copses lewth.

How swiftly there did run the brooks,
How swift wer winds in flight,
How swiftly to their roost the rooks
Did vlee o'er head at night.
Though slow did seem to us the peäce
O' comèn days a-head,
That now do seem as in a reäce
Wi' aïr-birds to ha' vled.

THE VIER-ZIDE.

'Tis zome vo'ks jaÿ to teäke the road,
An' goo abro'd, a-wand'rèn wide,
Vrom shere to shere, vrom pleäce to pleäce,
The swiftest peäce that vo'k can ride.
But I've a jaÿ 'ithin the door,
Wi' friends avore the vier-zide.

An' zoo, when winter skies do lour,
An' when the Stour's a-rollèn wide,
Drough bridge-voot raïls, a-païnted white,
To be at night the traveller's guide,
Gi'e me a pleäce that's warm an' dry,
A-zittèn nigh my vier-zide.

Vor where do love o' kith an' kin,
At vu'st begin, or grow an' wride,
Till souls a-lov'd so young, be wold,
Though never cwold, drough time nor tide
But where in me'th their gather'd veet
Do often meet--the vier-zide.

If, when a friend ha' left the land,
I shook his hand a-most wet-eyed,
I velt too well the ob'nèn door
Would leäd noo mwore where he did bide
An' where I heärd his vaïces sound,
In me'th around the vier-zide.

As I've a-zeed how vast do vall
The mwold'rèn hall, the wold vo'ks pride,
Where merry hearts wer woonce a-ved
Wi' daily bread, why I've a-sigh'd,
To zee the wall so green wi' mwold,
An' vind so cwold the vier-zide.

An' Chris'mas still mid bring his me'th
To ouer he'th, but if we tried
To gather all that woonce did wear
Gay feäces there! Ah! zome ha' died,
An' zome be gone to leäve wi' gaps
O' missèn laps, the vier-zide.

But come now, bring us in your hand,
A heavy brand o' woak a-dried,
To cheer us wi' his het an' light,
While vrosty night, so starry-skied,
Go gather souls that time do speäre
To zit an' sheäre our vier-zide.

KNOWLWOOD.

I don't want to sleep abrode, John,
I do like my hwomeward road, John;
An' like the sound o' Knowlwood bells the best.
Zome would rove vrom pleäce to pleäce, John,
Zome would goo from feäce to feäce, John,
But I be happy in my hwomely nest;
An' slight's the hope vor any pleäce bezide,
To leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide.

Where the shelvèn knap do vall, John,
Under trees a-springèn tall, John;
'Tis there my house do show his sheenèn zide,
Wi' his walls vor ever green, John,
Under ivy that's a screen, John,
Vrom wet an' het, an' ev'ry changèn tide,
An' I do little ho vor goold or pride,
To leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide.